The World and Its Problems
by Somepatriot
Summary: Look at a story. Back to mine. Sadly, that story isn't mine. But if it lost that stupid summary and wrote something like this, it could look like mine. Scroll down. Back up. Where are you? You're on a computer, about to click on this story. Oneshots.
1. The Smiling Man

Disclaimer: I dis my claims of Hetalia

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><p>A lone man sat in a coffee shop. He was at a table by the window, sipping a cup of hot tea and staring out at the rain. He was nothing spectacular, really. He had short, messy blonde hair and extraordinary eyebrows. But his green eyes sparkled as he stared out at the sky's tears, and he had a small kink that forced his lips upward.<p>

And that's what made him different.

People sometimes say that the way you dress matters, or maybe how your hair is styled. But I will forever believe that it's whether or not you are smiling. No one can resist a charming smile and a friendly laugh!

Not even me.

And this man's smile was as warm and bright as ever. But one could say it had a certain tainted feel to it, like it was nostalgic. Or... Twisted. But this did not dampen my interests, it only heightened them. It did so to a point of no return, one that forced my body into motion. Without my consent, my legs brought me over to the stained, but still comfortable chair across from the smiling man. My lips were forced open by my curiosity, and my carelessness pushed out the words.

"Hi. I'm Alfred F. Jones. Who are you?"

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><p>Super short, I know. I was just flexing my fingers, in a way. Critique please!<p>

Love you all!

Sorry for mistakes, I'm American!


	2. The Prisoner

Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. But I do own a bowl of chicken lo mien, which I am currently eating.

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><p>Sometimes I wonder if anyone will ever be able to see me.<p>

I mean, sometimes it's nice, just look at the trouble America's gotten himself into. But…It's also gotten me into trouble…

I have to say, it gets annoying. But…I've grown used to it. Kind of like how a prisoner just excepts the fact that he isn't free anymore. Someone, one day, might decide to unlock that stupid cell, but until then…

There is no escape.

It's become quite depressing, over the years. Even my bear. Even he doesn't recognize me. My brother, England, France. They all seem to…turn the blind eye…

Cuba sometimes sees me. But, half the time he thinks I'm America and beats me up. It's…

Yeah.

I was sitting at a conference, being ignored, as usual.

Germany was standing up front, reporting about the economy in his country. France and England were fighting. Again.

America was cheering them on, screaming something about pirates. Russia was smiling intently at China, who was…holding a Hello Kitty and squeezing the life out of it.

Just a usual meeting.

But suddenly, something big and white burst through the doors. At first I _thought_ it was a polar bear, but then it growled: "_bin Absturz dieses Treffen Partei auf mich_!"

And then I had no doubt it was a bear.

Something wet sprayed me in the face. I realized the bear had a neon green water gun, and it was currently rampaging about the room, shooting down anyone who came near.

I also realized that the "bear" wasn't a bear at all.

It was a man, with pure white hair and crazy red eyes.

He was really tall, almost as tall as America. He kept growling in some other language. Guessing by the…"throaty" sound of it, it was German.

That, and Germany grabbed the man and hoisted him in the air whilst yelling "BRUDER!"

The gun fell out of the man's hands, and he frowned and kicked around in mid-air.

"Aw, West! C'mon! I was just having a little fun!"

"west"…what an odd nickname. As far as I was concerned, Germany was not really considered a western nation, unless this certain man lived in Asia.

"Ve! Hi Prussia!" Italy said, waving his limbs.

_Prussia? Prussia…_ I racked my brain for a country called Prussia, but nothing came up.

Unlike my brother, I take education seriously. I have completely memorized the world map. It only took a few hundred years. But I did do it, and as far as I was concerned, there was no nation called Prussia. _Perhaps he's a micro nation?_

He certainly didn't look like one. I mean, I mistook him for a bear when I first saw him so…

The pale man noticed me staring. He smiled, from his spot in the air. "What? Like what you see, little birdie?"

He was talking to me. He noticed me. HE SAW ME.

As the other nations glanced at Prussia questioningly, I looked at him with awe.

_A prisoner sits in a jail cell, accepting the fact that he is no longer free. That is, until a pale man bearing a green water gun unlocks the door and lets him out._

_And the prisoner must accept…he is free._

"Yeah, I like it a lot."

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><p>Not as short as the other one!<p>

Review and critique please!

Love you all!

Sorry for mistakes, I'm American.

-Mallory


	3. Faires vs Aliens

Disclaimer: My family owns a small patch of land in America. That is as close as I'll ever get to owning Hetalia. Unless i become a world dictator, but that's so much work.

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><p>Arthur Kirkland had never been considered a "normal" boy. Ever since he told his teacher that fairies followed him around, his parents had kept an eye on him. But after a while, he figured something out.<p>

He could _lie_. And lie he did.

Fairies? What fairies? You mean those girlie things with wings?

Luckily, his friends understood.

His magical friends, that is.

He was the outcast. Not even the freaks hung out with him. Bullies didn't even bother to bully him, he was so alone. Completely separated.

Until his seventh year in school.

That year, a very strange boy transferred from some school in America. His name was Alfred F. Jones, and he immediately won the heart of the entire school.

This surprised Arthur. Because of his years alone, he was adept at just simply watching the world go by. He knew all about how social status worked. Be a bigger dickhead than everyone around you: and no one will hurt you.

But Alfred was not rude in the least. Sure, sometimes he could be brutally honest, and all around daft, but he was charming and kind, and he had such a large hero complex. He wanted to- no, needed to- help everyone.

Forget your homework? Quick, I'll help you.

Need a dollar for lunch? Pay me back whenever.

Everyone loved him.

Even Arthur.

Now, you have to understand, Alfred was a oblivious fellow. He never really paid much attention to his surroundings, especially when fleeing from angry vice principles. (Okay, he _might_ have held open the elevator doors for about twenty people who didn't need to use it…)

So, it didn't come as a surprise to Arthur when the poor boy accidentally bumped into him.

Arthur, being sensible, grabbed him and dragged him under a stairwell, just as the Vice Principle ran past.

"Whoo!" Alfred sighed. "Thanks a ton! I owe you, dude!"

Arthur gave a faint smile and nodded, ignoring one of his fairy friends telling him he'd be late for class.

"Hey, aren't you in my homeroom?" Alfred asked.

Arthur nodded slowly, cautiously.

"Oh! Cool, man! See you around!" Alfred waved as he got up and strode away, only to be spotted by the Vice Principal, and dragged away by his ear.

**OoOoOo**

After that, Alfred always made it a point to sit with, or at least talk to, Arthur. Every morning in homeroom, Alfred would come over and talk to the misfit, much to everyone's confusion. Alfred never took up any of the offers the popular kids made him to sit with them, always whispering to Arthur: "Those guys aren't to cool. But us? We're hero's, Artie, hero's."

Soon his brief visits in homeroom became longer, and soon enough it was the whole fifteen minutes. Then it was meeting up in the hallways, sitting together at lunch, picking each other for teams in P.E.

It all slowly evolved.

By the end of the third semester, Alfred proudly called Arthur his best friend, and Arthur bashfully admitted Alfred was his only friend. Not that anyone asked.

They had been to each other's houses plenty of times, but when Alfred offered another visit, Arthur could tell something was different.

When he got to his house later on in the day, Alfred explained to him;

"Artie! I made a secret fort in my attic! I've been working on it for a while, I wanted you to be the first to see it!" He paused, cocking his head thoughtfully. "Well, the only one to see it." He added.

Alfred dragged the misfit up the stairs and up a folding ladder. Arthur was met with the "most awesome" (As Alfred put it) fort.

It had a tent made up of old sheets and pillows, and maps and books, books galore! There were video games and a stock pile of chips. Arthur couldn't stop smiling. The place was perfect!

Alfred grabbed the boy and pulled him into the tent, his face becoming serious. "Artie." He said, his tone flat. "There's something really important I have to tell you. Something I haven't ever told anyone else."

Arthur nodded, signaling him to go on.

"I-" Alfred's voice broke uncharacteristically, but he swallowed and continued on. "I believe in aliens. And I've seen one."

Alfred waited for more.

Nothing else came.

"That's it?" He asked.

Alfred gaped at him. "That's it?" He cried. "THAT'S IT? Artie! It's like, super important! Most people would freak out if I told them that!"

Arthur shrugged. "I have a bunch of fairies that follow me around, ever since I was little."

Alfred continued gaping at him. "And no one else can see them?"

"No." Arthur agreed.

"ARTIE!~" Alfred suddenly screamed, pulling his friend into a hug. "You're like the bestest friend ever!"

"Air…"

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><p>Whoo! These keep getting longer.<p>

Now, I need to explain my reason for writing this. Usually, I write one-shots when I'm bored. I'll jab them down in a notebook, or on my iPod. Never have I really sat down on my computer and written one. But I've been feeling so out-of-the-writing-mood lately, I had to force myself to do this.

I'm still really thankful for all the reviews and support I've gotten, really, I love you all. But I just need some time to get back on track. I promise it won't be too long. Okay? Forgive me?

Thanks a bunch!

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

-Mallory


	4. The Unalienable Nation

Disclaimer: hetalia I do not own, for if I did you would have known.

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><p>We all have our ways.<p>

Our little strategies, things to trick our minds. If I was ever to face my past full-on, even my present…

I don't think I could handle it.

I never really sat back and thought about how much I lie to myself. Smile meaninglessly. Feel hurt, constant hurt, but I'm so used to it…

It's like it's not there…

England drinks. Germany buries himself with work. France has sex, Italy remains oblivious, Romano takes it out on Spain….and me?

I laugh it off. Stay stupid. Eat. Lie. Smile.

But it hurts.

I'm a young nation, I'll admit. I've only had so much past to cope with, so many wars. But they still hurt. Not physically, exactly. No, the scars are but a painful reminder.

And in that reminder is where I find the problem. How can I stand to have an intelligent, heart-to-heart talk with Britain?

Or pretend I never feel a tug in my chest, when I look at the scar cutting my body in half. North and South, torn in two.

Can I look at Japan without thinking of those bombs? And not one, but two.

No.

These memories are too painful. My past is not as long as most, but it is still ripped, and burned, and tainted.

Utterly tainted.

So during meetings I babble on about everything and anything. Some distraction, any distraction, to help me keep my mind off of my past as I look at all the countries staring at me.

I can never go back. I can't change the things I did. I'm not sure if I want to.

But I'm sure of one thing.

The only thing I've ever wished for, is to be able to look into a countries eyes, and see not the past; but a friend.

I have yet to have such luxuries.

.

.

.

The unalienable nation, is truly alone.

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><p>HAZAH for angst! I don't know where this came from. I was having a good day too...<p>

I didn't send this to my beta, seeing as it's so short. So sorry for any mistakes!

Critique is read and loved! Flames are read and used to roast weenies.

-Mallory


	5. The war of the Tomato Garden

Disclaimer: I am awesome. Therefore I own a small part of Prussia.

Currently, it costs $48.92 to become a lord/lady of sealand, so it won't be long until I untie with that COUNTRY.

I'm an American.

I love all things British. (Except the food. Like black pudding. Why would you even make that?)

I'm a perv.

I love pasta.

I call people Tomato Bastards.

Sometimes I find myself saying"Da" "Ja" or "Hai."

In other words, I own Hetalia in my heart. But sadly, only my heart.

**WARNING:**

**Fuck. Bastard. Shit. PENIS! Ahaha...not really...that was just a tease...**

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><p>Spain walked through his tomato garden. Or rather, plantation. The place was huge, he spent all of his "free" time there. Caring for the plants, just enjoying his time in the warm sun.<p>

And he also thought. A lot.

Spain isn't exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, or the brightest bulb, or whatever other metaphor you want to use. But he never lied to himself. He knew exactly where he stood in this world, why he said that, why he did this.

The problem was figuring out other people's actions.

France took some getting used to. Almost all of his actions are something sexual. And all Prussia does is proclaim himself awesome.

But those two hadn't been so hard to figure out. Their emotions are shown quite bluntly most of the time. Either that or they're drunk.

No, the person who he had worked years to no avail to decode was none other than Romano. The boy he raised.

It seems all that boy ever does is lie to himself, and to Spain.

"I'm not scared."

"I don't care."

"I hate you."

Well, Spain hoped that last one was a lie. He always liked Romano, he was so cute! And lately, Spain had been finding him even more so. And he knew perfectly why. He never lies to himself. But Romano, on the other hand...

"Yo Tomato bastard!"

Spain turned, surprised that the very person he had been thinking about had magically appeared.

**A/N. You're welcome, Spain. **

"Romano!" He cried, rushing over to wrap the Italian in his arms.

"Get off me, Bastard!"

Spain obliged, but with regret. Romano's so cute! He was blushing furiously, his fist were clenched. "Damn bastard...I just came to help with your tomatoes..."

"Really?" Spain perked up. "Aw! Thanks a ton, Lovi~!"

Romano looked at his feet, blushing even more. "I didn't do it for you!" He said quickly. "I did it for the tomatoes! And my idiot brother and the potato bastard are at the house and I had to get out of there..."

Spain looked a bit down for a moment, but his smile was plastered back on his face within moments. "Okay then! Will you help me over here? The watering system broke so I have to do it all by hand."

"Fine...whatever...bastard." Romano said, following the Spaniard to the slightly browning plants. Spain handed the Italian a gardening can, and he picked up the hose for himself.

Romano muttered a few vile words about being given the lesser device, but he went on to work all the same.

It took about two minutes for things to get crazy.

Spain accidentally sprayed Romano, who flipped out, called Spain a "Damn fucking tomato bastard!"

He turned on him with fist and water from the can.

And sooner than you can say "Potato Bastard" there was a full blown water war.

Spain laughed as a stream of water from his hijacked hose nearly got him. He danced around, his shirt long forgotten in the mud, carefully avoiding Romano's attempts to drench him like some kind of beautiful dance. He soon discovered that the closer he got to the hose, the harder it was for Romano to control it. Exploiting this newfound information, he danced closer to the angry Italian, who sprayed him right in the face.

"Aw~ Lovi~!" He cried, grabbing at the hose. Romano pulled it away at the last second, successfully drenching the Spaniard at the same time.

Spain smiled and pulled Romano's arms to his sides, pinning the hose.

Wrapping the boy in his arms, he smirked. What caused this behavior, you ask?

Simple. Romano had smiled. And that itself is the most beautiful thing Spain had ever seen.

But that smile was gone now, much to Spain's disappointment. "Lovi~ You're so cute when you smile!"

Romano seemed completely frozen, despite the summer heat. "B-bastard!"

"Lovi?" Spain asked, cocking his head, looking at the Italian with interest. "Is there something wrong?"

"Let! Go!" Romano yelled, furiously blushing, his angry breaths coming in little puffs.

"Huh?" Spain asked.

And then he realized where his hand was. On the curl. The forbidden curl.

"Ah! Lovi~ Sorry!" Spain cried, letting go and backing up.

"B-b-bastard! I hate you!"

That hurt. It hurt more than the punch Romano was currently throwing at the Spaniard. "Do you?" Spain asked.

Romano paused, looking surprised. "Huh?"

"Do you? Hate me?" Spain asked.

Spain is a simple person. He never lies to himself. He liked Romano, very much. And he knew why, and how. He knew when it happened and what happened. But he had no clue what Romano thought, felt, and knew. It was the most tightly bound book in the library, it might as well have a pad lock on it.

"You stupid bastard!" Romano screamed, clutching the man's hair forcefully. "You never know anything! Ever! Can't you just tell?"

_He does hate me..._

Like I said, Spain isn't the smartest man in the world. Hell, he's not the smartest chicken in the world. But he never lied to himself, and at the moment, he felt what he can only describe as heartbreak.

And that's when he realized he was in love with Romano.

And suddenly, the heartbreak doubled. He felt like curling up into a little ball and sinking in the quickly drying mud.

"Damn bastard! Were you dropped on your head as a kid? Of course I don't hate you! I like you, stupid damn fucking idiot!"

And then Spain's brain short circuited. No, not because Romano's words confused him. No, the words were pretty easy to process.

But the action that followed said words drove him insane.

Romano had kissed him. And now _he would not stop_. Not that Spain was complaining. In fact, he wrapped his arms around his love, and kissed back deeply.

_He doesn't hate me!_

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

**o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

France wiped the blood off his nose. "We should visit Spain more often." He told Prussia, who was crouched in the bushes beside him.

"Yeah." The albino agreed. "But I still think it would have totally been more awesome if it turned into a mud wrestling match."

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><p>Oh, I love France XD<p>

Critique is greatly appreciated! I BEG YOU!

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

I love you, my lovely little lemon drops! Until next time, REVIEW!

-Mallory


	6. Franada

When France came over for a visit, I thought nothing of his many attempts of groping me. Or grabbing my butt. He was clearly intoxicated, nothing strange there. I could see the red stain above his lips that clearly suggested he had been drinking wine. And even if he hadn't been completely wasted, his pervy behavior is the norm.

But then he tried to kiss me.

Now, I've grown up dealing with France. And I know for a fact that he never tries to kiss anyone, lest he considers them interest of l'amour. Why? I'm not to sure. Maybe because he'd rather just get straight to the point, the point being sex. Or maybe he considers kissing unnecessary. Perhaps he even finds kissing is a sign of love, a sign that cannot be wasted on one-night-stands.

These thoughts practically fried my brain, and my poor shy demeanor short circuited. Blushing furiously, I pushed the Frenchman off me and ran up to my room. I could hear him calling my name, My name. He was saying my name.

Canada. Not America. Canada. His voice didn't stop until I fell asleep, though how I did so, I can't imagine.

The next morning I was even more scared then the previous night. Because facing a drunk, bumbling France is much easier than facing a sober one. I snuck down the stairs, trying to blend into the wall. I find I have quite a talent for this, whatever the reason. I could be wearing the brightest red hoodie, but I still seem to fade into the background.

But the point is, I crept around my own house, feeling stupid, until France grabbed me from behind and would not let go. I was scared to death, to say the least. France wasn't known for waiting for a "yes" before he…

Yeah.

I was stuttering to no end and he was talking, but I couldn't understand him, my brain was still closed for maintenance. It took me about ten minutes to figure out he was speaking French. He kept repeating the same thing over and over: "Calm down, I just want to talk. Come on, little one. Just talk…"

"Talk?" I asked. He nodded, dragging me over to my couch. Sitting me down gently, he faced me. "Mon petite." He said, very quietly. "Remember the day we said good bye?"

"G-g-good bye?" I stuttered. "W-when?" France traced the pattern in the couch, pursing his lips. "The time you left. Forever." It dawned on me. When England took me away from France. I was still young then, but old enough to understand what was happening. I cried for ages, Quebec was furious. It was a disaster. That day, France had bent low, took me in a hug, and said: "It's alright, little one. Je t'aime." I had just cried, clutching him until England dragged me away.

France took my hand, looking me in the eyes.  
>"Je continue á...je t'aime." I gaped at him. "You…do?"<p>

"I do." He cupped my cheek, leaned in, and kissed me.

And I kissed back. 


	7. Stop Talking

"It's been a while, mon cher."

"Oh shut it, frog. Don't speak your bloody language at me!"

"But Angleterre! I was simply saying how _dearly _I missed my good friend-"

"SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP! Don't start with me, frog! The only reason I asked you over is that I needed your help with…mmfdf…"

"Pardon? What was that?"

"I said I need your help with…mfghsss…"

"Come again?"

"…help with mmfffd…."

"What?"

"I BLOODY NEED HELP WITH MY LOVE LIFE!"

"Ohonhonhon~! Well you have come to the right place!"

"Don't start, you bloody frog. And stop smiling like that!"

"Okay, okay. How can I be of service? Would you like me to-"

"NO! You disgusting frog! I need to know how to tell if a certain _git_is flirting."

"A 'git'? Who is this girl?"

"No one you know."

"Really? Well, then what's she like?"

"Well, she's not actually a…"

"Quoi? I didn't get that last part."

"She's not a…"

"What?"

"It's a he!"

"Ohonhon~! Well, if I knew that I would have-"

"SHUT! UP!"

"Okay, okay. Put down the knife, mon ami. I'll tell you every trick I know."

"Okay, good."

"But first you have to tell me who he is."

"MOTHER FU-"

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><p>Oh, this? Yeah I don't know either. I wrote it after my mid term C: The things that go through my head during tests...<p>

"Okay, Mallory, you got this. What side of the phosphate molecule points inward, meaning away from the plasma membrane... I wonder what's on T.V...NO! Focus! Okay, phosphate...right...phosphate. Prostate. France would like to give/get a-NO! BAD THOUGHTS! Okay! Molecules! Yes, cells! Like jail cells, but without the jail. Whoa...I wonder where eraser crumbs _go_? I mean, you never see them after you brush them away...whoa...Where's my pencil?"

Yeah. I sometimes think I'm ADD. But then i get distracted.

Tata!

-Mallory


	8. Kanata

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a man who was ready to spend the rest of his life with a woman whom he loved very much.

They lived together in a house as lovely as the country they resided in. France.

The house was lined with every kind of flower imaginable, decorative black fences surrounded the property, and the home was decorated in a way interior designers would envy.

The neighbors were lively and agreeable; the weather almost always seemed to be gorgeous. The couple had been living a wonderful life.

"Jeanne, my love…" Francis said, clutching her hand. "I will love you for all eternity…"

"Francis…" The woman replied, smiling. "I will always love you…to my dying breath."

But not every story…

Ends with a happily ever after…

The young man sailed across the ocean, to foreign unknown lands, trying to forget his beloved.

Hoping; that the lands would have something of value to offer him.

But all he found was a wasteland of frozen snow.

Or so he thought.

The man stood, staring out at nothing before him. Snowflakes swirled around him in frenzy, the wind hummed contentedly in his ear.

The land was so different from his home, from his past. He had wanted to escape, find something to block the mourning in his heart.

But all he found was vast, empty tundra.

"Dami… cley o wheem?" A small voice asked.

Francis turned in shock, surely there was no life in this…land.

"Dami cley o wheem?" The boy asked again. He was barely two; his beautiful purple eyes stared up at the man as he asked again "dami cley o wheem?"

"Bonjour, mon petite." Francis said, bending down. " Comment t'appelle tu ? (What is your name?)"

The little boy stared up at him in wonder. He didn't look the least bit cold, frightened, or uncomfortable. In fact, he looked right at home.

"Ap…chilasi…Kanata…" (Welcome…to our village).

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><p>I have no idea what language Canada is speaking. Probably a native tounge. This was based of the most beautiful awe-worthy video I have every seen.<p>

I'm afraid I didn't do it any justice. It is called "Kanata" on you tube. It is by Imamathewanian, and I really hope you check it out.

Thanks so much for reading!

-Mallory


	9. StarSpangeld Barbeque

England gritted his teeth and held the sign a little higher.

He hated his life.

Because _maybe _he needed a few extra Pounds. Maybe he was just a tiny bit broke. But this? Was this even worth it?

He was in bloody America.

He was _working _in bloody _America. _

But wait, there's more. He was on the side of the road, holding up a large star-spangled sign that read "All-American Barbeque house! Next signal!"

And even all of this humility combined could not even _try _to compare to the final element.

_He was in a statue of liberty costume._

Damn it all to bloody hell.

But hey—just as long as no one he knew saw him in—

"England?"

The cars had stopped at a red light. Leaning out of a grey pick-up truck was the _last _person he wanted to see.

Well, maybe not the last. France was the last. Well, France was a frog—not a person. So he didn't count.

"Oh god." England cursed under his breath. Bloody _America _was leaning out of his car window—grinning like a maniac, and desperately laughing his bloody arse off.

"Shut it, you bloody wanker!" England yelled across the street.

"You! Ahaha! I can't believe this! You're in a dress! Ahahaha!" America teased, snapping some pictures on his phone.

England tried to hold the sign in front of his face, but it was in vain. "Stop taking bloody pictures!"

America laughed as the light turned green and he sped off, much to England's relief.

Until he returned twenty minutes later with France and that bloke-what's-his-name.

England hated his life.

**Inspired by a brave teenage boy. He stood on the side of a bridge in the pouring rain, in a dress, to adevertise this barbeque shop. And for whatever reason, he looked just like England. But with less eyebrows. **

**Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	10. And Then They Did

**Pairing: USxUK**

**Rating: K+**

**Genre: Angst Humor Romance**

**Diclaimer: I own Hetalia season one on DVD. I also have a notebook with Iggy on it. I write lemons in it. :D **

"Yeah?" America screamed, his hands curling into fists. "Well, your scones taste like petrified couch stuffing!"

England rolled his eyes. "Oh? That's rich coming from such a cultured nation like you."

America stomped his foot in frustration and crossed England's small living room. "I'm cultured!"

"Ha! Your 'culture' is just a re-run of all the other nations!"

America's face turned red. He hated it when people played that card. America was a vast nation, unique, and totally awesome. Why did everyone turn the blind eye from his awesome traditions? Thanksgiving? Independence Day?

America snapped. "Well…At least I'm not some sick maniacal pirate-lord that cuts down people without thinking!"

England's eye twitched. Whenever people said that it really set him off. He was a conservative, proper gentleman. "Like I'm the bad guy! Look at your history!"

"Okay, I'll admit slavery isn't that heroic but you had it too!"

"Trail of Tears."

"Opium War! What was that started by again…? Drugs?"

"You fought your own brother! Many times! You caused so many problems! Remember what George Washington said? He said that America should 'keep to itself' stay in America. And I bloody well think I would have rather had it that you did!"

America shut his mouth and stepped back. England faltered for a moment, but regained his prideful stance. "…you're just a bloody wanker. You fought too many times. You're not a hero. You're….stupid! You're fat! I hate you! Why did you come back? Why didn't you stay in America? I wish you were never even discovered!"

America bit his tongue. He wanted to answer the questions. He wanted to say he had been lonely, he had missed…well, he had missed England.

But he couldn't say that.

England's lip was trembling. They both realized this petty bickering had gone far out of hand but neither of them could notch down their pride enough to amend it.

"…get out of my house." England mumbled.

America nodded, and turned from the Englishman. He walked out the door and didn't look back.

England let out his breath once he heard the front door click shut. His head fell into his hands and he sat heavily on the couch. "You…stupid…bloody America…" England sucked in a large breath, but held it when he noticed something. He was sitting on some sort of blanket, but it was stiffer and less malleable. He turned around and almost screamed. America had left his jacket in his haste to leave. England wanted that thing _out of his house_. Nothing that stupid America owned could _touch _his things! He picked it up by two fingers and was about to fling it elsewhere he was hit by a scent of beaches and freshly plowed soil. The mixture was delightful and intoxicating. England felt himself hug the jacket close to him, not bothering about how preposterous it was. "Stupid bloody git…"

**OOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOO**

"How could he say that!" America screamed to the world. No one heard him. He thundered down some random street in England, going nowhere but walking all the same. It was night, there were puddles on the cobblestone from last night's rain. In fact, it would have been peaceful if there had not been a sexually frustrated America going Godzilla on the town. "He's! He's! Ugh! He ruins everything!"

America felt a strange scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. No…he didn't want to do that…no…

America ran until it was well into the night. He found a nice park and settled down on a bench. He still refused to let those tears fall.

**OOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOO**

England had cried himself to sleep right there on his couch, hugging America's jacket. He felt like a pathetic whining girl that needed her crush to pay attention to her all the time. Not that he had a crush on America!

…bollocks.

England had only just realized that America had left all his things at England's house. His suitcase, passport, ID, money…

Cellphone.

England was becoming concerned. Did America know his way around the city? A million "what if" questions assaulted his mind and he stumbled from the couch, grabbed an overcoat and ran outside. Perhaps America was already dead. Maybe he tried to swim back home? Or worse—to France. "I swear, if he's dead when I find him, I'll kill him!"

**OOOoooOOOoooOOOoooOOO**

America was having a terrible dream. He was fighting England again, but this time it started to get physical. It never gets physical. England kept hitting his shoulder and back. He kept saying "I don't love you. I don't love you." America cried out for him to stop, but England's words only changed to:

"I swear, you had better wake up right now! If you're dead you're in so much trouble!"

America sat up with a jolt, which did nothing for his sore back. England was right in front of his, his green eyes narrowed in anger but sorely concealed worry. America didn't understand why his back and shoulder was hurting so much until he looked around. Oh.

That explains the shivering, too.

"You bloody git! It took me ages to find you!" England chided, handing him a very familiar brown jacket. "You could have died! What kind of idiot goes out into the streets alone without anything but the clothes on his back and then falls asleep on a bench? People would've stared!"

America shook his arm out to try to hush his screaming muscles. "Iggy, I'm sorry."

England's grumpy facade disappeared and his real concern and care showed through. "I'm sorry too, you git," he said "And my name is England."

America reached up with sore shoulders and pulled England close. "I don't want to fight again." He mumbled into his shoulder.

England patted his head and set himself on the American's lap. "Me either, poppet."

"I didn't mean anything."

"Neither did I. You are a hero."

"I love you."

"I love you t- wait a bloody second." England pulled America away so he could look him in the face. "You what?"

"I love you. Even though we fight and you make fun of me and everything I do. I love you even though you like to talk to empty rooms and play with fairies."

"They're real!" England protested, but America shook his head and placed a finger over England's lips in order to shush him. "I love you because you can't cook a thing, because you try so hard, because you try to hide the fact that you're really kind and caring."

England looked away. "Stupid…I love you too. Even though you'll probably die with the way you've been eating as of late. And that you think aliens are real. I love you because you're loud and stupid and you try your best, even though your best can't even amount to my worst."

"Hey!"

England smirked, but continued on. "But I really love you because you're a ruddy good kisser."

America's eyebrows scrunched down, and he mumbled: "But we haven't even kiss-

And then they did.

**Critique or comments are welcome!**

**This wasn't edited. I'm also American. So sorry for any mistakes!**

**IF YOU'RE AWESOME AND A PRUSSIAN HIT FAVORITE. IF YOU'RE AWESOME AND A PRUSSIAN HIT SUBSCRIBE :)**


	11. Nightmares

**Pairing: UsUk**

**Warning: I distorted some of the revolution scene, but whatever. **

**Summary: It is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all...right?**

_._

_._

_Rain pattered on a battlefield._

It was dark, the soldiers were tired, and there was two people standing in the middle of it all.

_Betrayal._

America was staring at England defiantly, the water clinging to his hair. "All I wanted, was my freedom!"

_Why? Don't you like me? Didn't you...take my hand? Didn't you tell me that you loved me? Haven't I protected you? Loved you?_

America charged at England, the bayonet looking almost as sharp as the pain in England's chest. His eyes were full of determination, but England didn't care to look further into them. He threw up his own gun.

Both of them clattered to the ground. America fell to the ground, where his already tattered uniform was splattered with mud.

Behind him, his broken looking army stood proudly, and together they all raised their guns. They were pointed at England.

England had a knife in his hand. It flashed against the gray sky, and he looked like a diamond against rocks with his crisp red uniform. He brought down the knife, he heard America's army rustle.

The knife stopped.

"Dammit!" England screamed, falling to his knees.

_Failure._

"I...I just can't do it!"

_Pain._

America stared at the broken man at his feet. "I remember," he whispered. "I remember when you were great."

_No._

America stood up. He walked away, and he left England on a muddy battlefield in the new _United States of America._

Love.

England woke up crying.

"Hey! England! Iggy!"

There were hands on his cheeks, pressing warmth into the tears. "Iggy, Iggy! What happened?"

England opened his eyes and stared at America.

"Don't leave me..." He cried.

America was quick to gather him into his arms. "No...no...Iggy. I love you. I love you."

England sniffed. "Why?" he sobbed.

America stroked soft, smooth circles into England's back. "Because it is better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all."

England wrapped his arms around America, and buried his tears in his thin T-shirt.

**SO DEEP AMERICA ;A;**

**You can take that to mean anything you want it to. I just don't like the reasoning for the war to be that America loved England and wanted him to be his equal. It's so...cliche. But how else can you explain it? Once I figure that out, I'll write a longer fic.**

**Sorry for any mistakes! I'm American!**

**-Mallory**


	12. Spamano

Antonio plucked at his guitar. It was a lovely Autumn day, the streets were bustling, the wind was blowing, and the sun shining. Everything was as it should be. Antonio had thought it would be a nice day to play his guitar, as he often did. He had set up in front of a coffee shop, and was enjoying the nostalgia of playing Spanish melodies. Every so often someone would walk by and drop some money in his case. Antonio would always smile so brightly to thank them.

A little boy made his way towards the Spaniard. He was wearing a cute little red coat with a purple scarf, and little brown boots. Antonio smiled at him.

"Hola, pequeña," he said in his native tongue. He doubted the boy would understand him. It didn't matter, though. Children were used to confusion.

The little boy sniffed and rubbed his nose. "Hola."

Antonio's smile brightened. "Oh, you speak Spanish?" He asked, continuing off in his native tongue.

The boy nodded and sat down, watching Antonio's hands move over the guitar.

"Where is your momma?" Antonio asked.

The little boy pointed behind him, towards a little shop. Antonio could see a beautiful woman in the window, trying on hats with a little boy that looked just like the one in front of Antonio now. She didn't seem worried about her son's whereabouts.

This made Antonio frown. "What is your name?" He asked in Spanish.

"Lovino."

Lovino? That wasn't a very Spanish name. In fact, it sounded Italian. "Hola, Lovino," Antonio said anyway, "my name is Antonio. It is nice to meet you."

The little boy nodded again.

"Where are you from?"

"Italia."

Antonio smiled. So he had been correct. "Well, you speak quite a lot of Spanish for an Italian. Here, let me play a song for you, Lovi."

**Based off of this photo:**

animewtacherfeakmal DOT tumblr DOT com post/26294025118/antonio-plucked-at-his-guitar-it-was-a-lovely


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